What counts?

 

Are you a writer?

Do you feel like a writer?

Back in my early writing years I remember deciding that I could call myself a writer if I was writing.  But what did that mean?

I determined that I would build a writing habit, working toward the goal of writing every day - for at least a few minutes - or to a specific word count goal.

But what would I write? 

What counts as writing? 

Then again… Who really cares? If this is my writing habit, then I guess I get to set the rules. Yes, I know there may come a time when I may want or need to set specific parameters for my daily writing – to discipline myself to move toward a certain project goal. But for now my main intent is to build the habit. So methinks it can be pretty open-ended.

Writing projects

I have lots of ideas of things I want to write about someday and have even started some of them. I can be working on any one of them in my regular writing time.

Blogging

That blog I started years ago is still sitting here patiently despite receiving sparse attention from me.  Once upon a time, I went to check out somebody else’s blog that I remembered liking…  but this time was disappointed to discover no new posting.  I found myself not wanting that to happen to my blog so I made a really small goal that I would post at least once a month.  I have succeeded most of the time.  Maybe it is time to punch it up to once a week.  Hmmm…

Journaling

I have written journals for many years – albeit sporadically. In recent years I have had a pretty solid digital journaling habit.  I like to have such journaling in electronic form so that I can easily cut and paste sections that I might want to use elsewhere.

Morning Pages

Back in 1992, in The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron introduced Morning Pages which are to be done with pen and paper.  I understand her reasons and do enjoy the pen-to-paper method, but still find myself alternating between that and keys-to-screen.  I’m mostly okay with that combination.

Letter-writing

I recently discovered that I had nearly forgotten how to write real old-fashioned letters – and I want to re-learn that worthwhile art.  Yes, I think that letters qualify as writing.

NaNoWriMo

Since publishing the first version* of this piece several years ago, I have added another powerful habit to my writerly life. I now participate in National Novel Writing Month every November, which is an intense push to compose 50,000 words in one month.  It has been an excellent exercise for me.

Everything counts

I’ve come to the conclusion that pretty much ANYTHING GOES. Anything I write counts as writing.  Duh.  Put pen to paper. That’s it. For this season at least, letter-writing qualifies. Journaling qualifies as well. Blogging earns extra credit. And those other projects? I’ll keep working on them. 

At about this point in my original post* of this piece, I dared to dream that “maybe someday one of them will grow into an actual literary work.”   Well, hey, sure enough.  One of my recent NaNo projects, Journey of a Decade, has indeed been published on Amazon.  

And now I’m working on publishing a second one.  I guess you never know where a consistent habit might lead.  Even small habits. 

So yah, if I put pen to paper...  If I intentionally corral some of the thoughts chasing each other through my brain and whip them into words and sentences, it counts.

And yes, I am a writer.

Because I write.

Don't pretend it didn't happen

Oh, no!  I see that I have failed to post here during February.  I feel like a failure. It was my only real goal for my blog… to post at least once a month - and I have mostly succeeded for well over a decade.

But now I have failed.

What should I do with my failure?  

Too late to fix it.  

Okay; my first thought was that maybe I could still write something and pre-date it.  

To pretend the failure didn’t happen.

To give the appearance of doing well.

Or I can choose to admit my error and move on.

Go ahead and write a post for this month - or maybe even two.

But don’t pretend to be perfect.

.  .  .  .  .

Diana Butler Bass recently wrote about her visit to The National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Two female names and one “unknown” caught her attention - all died the same day in Calhoun County, Georgia.  When she asked about them, she found this:  

After Calvin Mike voted in Calhoun County, Georgia, in 1884,

a white mob attacked and burned his home,

lynching his elderly mother and his two young daughters,

Emma, age 6, and Lillie, age 4.

Diana Butler Bass continues:   "I wanted to reach through time and throw myself between them and the mob; I wanted to save them. I wanted them to grow up to be women, to have their own children and grandchildren."

.  .  .  .  .

I too wished there was something I could do.

I didn’t even know about so much of this national horror until recently.

Now that I do know, I am appalled.

It’s too late to fix it.

We can't turn back the clock.

We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.

To give the appearance that all is well.

.  .  .  .  .

It is a bit absurd to compare these horrific stories with my silly little tale about my blog failure. Of course they are nothing alike… except maybe for that sneaky temptation to pretend it never happened.  To try to give the impression that everything is fine. 

But once again, the only thing I know to do is to admit the truth. And my ignorance. And then to take time to learn anything I can about how to stand for justice now.

Do the best you can until you know better.

Then when you know better, do better.

- Maya Angelou

The National Memorial for Peace & Justice...

A sacred space for truth-telling and reflection

about racial terror in American and its legacy.

The lights and delights of winter…

Poinsettias and twinkly lights and snowmen aren’t just for Christmas anymore.  The Christmas village on the mantle has transitioned into a winter village casting its alpenglow on my morning ritual of sitting in the pre-dawn stillness.

The red and green storage bins no longer contain only Christmas decorations.  They have organized themselves into a seasonal system where some of them still carry the Christmas baubles and stockings and the heirloom nativity scene… while others now hold space for all kinds of other winter decor like poinsettias, snowmen, the Alpine village, and any number of lights and candles.

This paradigm shift has offered a chance to pause…

To sit with tiny pinpricks of light in the pre-dawn quiet…

To ponder the mysteries of darkness and silence...

I have come to cherish these quiet winter moments.

I am no longer in such a hurry for the seasons to move faster.

I can find things to celebrate in each one.

On the eve of Christmas Eve

It was nineteen years ago today that I got the phone call.

"I'm afraid it is bad news. Yes, it is cancer.”   

Two days before Christmas!

So began an adventure that I would not have asked for.  A journey of more medical appointments, more testing, more poking and prodding, more surgeries, more decisions.  Then came chemotherapy and radiation and the eventual milestones of semi-annual and annual check-ups.  

But then a recurrence... which led to yet another journey of consultations, decisions, surgeries… and finally back to the annual check-up pattern again.  

Memories of bad news, good news, fear, stress, compassion, empathy, hope, and gratitude mingle on such a date as this.  And celebration for 16 years cancer-free.

This tender thankful time

This wonderful shot of our house popped up in my Facebook memories…  and gave me pause.  I love this place and I love this shot… and I had to admit I’m gonna' be a little sad to leave this old Victorian beauty when hubby gets the rescue house across the road rehabbed and ready for us.  I gave space to the moment and remembered hard good-byes to another beautiful home. 

It was an amazing house that my man built when we were newlyweds and where we raised our kids and a couple dozen others.  We couldn’t imagine ever leaving that place.

Then there was the summer in the log bunkhouse that he had designed and built with reclaimed barn timbers…

And the three years we got to live in the Christmas cabin… Oh, my!

More Facebook memories surfaced from exactly eight years ago as we drove away from that amazing Christmas tree farm that the new owners were transforming into a horse ranch.  Farewell, Hidden Hollows.

I read the comments from friends…  as if I weren’t already emotional enough.

Like neighbor Arlene:  I will always have fond memories of those several years that you opened early for our family to come and get a Christmas tree. 

And “little” Samuel who was featured on TV-5’s Take Five decades ago.  I think he was five years old when Dick Fabian interviewed him as he and his dad cut down their Christmas tree.  Grown-up Sam reminisced:  Many of my most treasured memories were made at that place. But the truth is that it was never the place that made those memories, it was you and Bob. Thank you for making us all feel at home.

 

My long-lost best friend from childhood chimed in: I'm glad I got to see it with you and your mom several years ago. It is etched in my memory as are our childhood years! Blessings on the new chapter of your lives.

So in that moment of melancholy today I thought about the fact that if we hadn't left that other beloved house, we wouldn't have come here.

I am so grateful for all the memories.

And I look forward to making a few more.

This is a tender thankful Thursday.